Happiness Is
by Tachibana An
Summary: Observations by Fuji as he and the team travel. TezuFuji, futurefic, fluff.


Disclaimer: I own neither PoT nor the characters therein.

Happiness Is

The wheels on the train went clickity-clackety, clickity-clackety, clickity-clackety, clickity-clackety, and Fuji lay back in his seat and listened. It was quiet, he thought, but there was noise all around anyway. Every few minutes Eiji would mumble and stretch in his sleep, and Ryoma would grab his blanket a bit tighter and it would rustle, and every two hours on the hour, Oishi would wake up and look around to make sure everyone was sleeping. And next to Fuji, Tezuka was breathing deeply, steadily, sleeping the sleep of the exhausted, warm breath blowing against Fuji's ear.

He looked so soft without his glasses on, eyes closed lightly, hair falling haphazardly across his forehead. His cheeks were flushed from being out in the sun too long, hot to the touch, and his nose was already starting to peel. His hand felt soft on Fuji's stomach, soft and gentle even in his sleep. The calluses Fuji didn't notice; they were as much a part of Tezuka as the hair and the glasses and the heart of gold.

Fuji rubbed his fingers across Tezuka's knuckles and closed his eyes. Today had been a good day, he thought, and he was happy.

* * *

The air was hot outside, and humid, and the sickly-sweet scent from the flowering vines made it hard to breath. Fuji was in his element, taking time to frame each plant before he snapped the picture. The flowers were so green here, so colorful, all yellows and reds and bright, bright blues bleeding into each other like finger paints. They would make lovely pictures for Fuji's collection. He could see it now: the red ones in the kitchen to match the countertops, the yellow and blue ones in the study to match the computers, and the purple ones in the bedroom, because Tezuka liked them. 

There were bees soaring in and out among the flowers and on the rim Ryoma's ponta, just drones that wouldn't sting. Their buzzing was low, interrupted by the occasional cawing of a bird as it flapped overhead or a 'Nya, Oishi!' from the acrobat climbing a tree. Inui walked by, dragging a pleased-looking Kaidoh and muttering something about finding a sample to study back home, ii data, and as his determined stomping faded in the distance the sounds in the forest quieted, until there was only the humming of the bees and the scritch-scratching of a pen on paper.

Tezuka's head was bowed as he wrote in his journal, his glassing slipping slowly down the bridge of his nose. He sat cross-legged on the path in front of a plant with small leaves and dozens of smaller fuchsia buds blooming on it. There was sweat dribbling down his forehead and mud on his legs and an ant climbing up the side of his water bottle, but Tezuka was intent on his writing.

The journal was leather but had a small scotch-taped paper reading Mexico-Colombia-Venezuela on it; when they got back home it would be filed on the shelf over Tezuka's computer desk, sixth journal from the left, in between Canada-Alaska-Hawaii and Ecuador-Peru-Brazil. Very neat and organized, and it would bother Tezuka to no end that the spine of this journal was stained darker than the others from the coffee Eiji had spilled on it the day before, despite Tezuka's assertions that it was perfectly fine and Eiji shouldn't worry about it at all. But that was just how Tezuka was.

His lips were moving, mumbling silently the words he was writing on the crisp, clean, acid-free paper, a medley of words without sound. Fuchsia, he would maybe write, a bright array of colors without end, glory upon glory of sight as far as your eye can see, hot damp tourists bumbling sleepily from vine to vine, breathing in the stagnant air and grinning widely so their teeth show for the camera.

Maybe it would be something like that. Or maybe it would be something beautiful that Fuji missed and only Tezuka saw. It would spoil the fun to lean over Tezuka's head and look, much better to wait until Tezuka showed him. Tezuka always showed him, just like Fuji always shared his pictures.

His head was still bowed over his journal when Fuji walked up to him. Time to go, Fuji said, and offered his hand.

Tezuka's grip was strong, trusting, his weight a comforting tug as he unfolded his limbs and stood awkwardly, shaking his legs to get the blood back in them, stomping them one at a time on the spongy path. He loomed over Fuji, his head framed in the bright white light of the mid-afternoon sun. He was smiling.

The grass and the twigs at the side of the path nicked their ankles as they walked, and Tezuka's hand in Fuji's felt sweaty and clammy and slightly uncomfortable, but Fuji didn't let go. There was bright, bright beauty in the dull things too, he thought.

* * *

The sound of violins and trumpets and sharp metal cymbals from Inui's headphones drifted over the back of the seat and wrapped around Fuji, the short jazzy tune meshing with the hum of the airplane and becoming a soft background to Tezuka's voice, reading mutedly from his journal. Fuji leaned against Tezuka's chest and felt the rumble as he talked about the fish they had eaten at that outdoor restaurant, felt Tezuka's heart thump steadily underneath his ear. Tezuka brought his arm up and wrapped around Fuji's shoulders, rubbing them slowly in the way that meant Go to sleep, I'll wake you when we get there. Fuji closed his eyes and drifted off feeling warm with Tezuka's arm around him, and in his ears were the beat of the jazz and the thrum of the plane and slow, steady safety of Tezuka's heart and voice combined, and it was very comfortable. 


End file.
